


not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do

by glitteratiglue



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky's apartment of sadness, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You really don’t remember, do you,” Steve says, halting, like the words bruise him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do

He has a name, a life. Not much of a life, but something that’s his, that doesn’t belong to Hydra.

He’s been moving from country to country, holing up in apartments. Watching, waiting —  for what, he isn't sure.

The name Bucky still sounds strange to him  — a name for a boy who sat on fire escapes in the baking sun, who ducked when his mother ruffled his hair. It's affectionate, disarming—everything he isn’t—and yet, it is the only name he has. The only one that matters.

Bucharest is not his home, but it's a city, and he grew up in a city: the noises and smells of an urban sprawl are familiar comforts. It's as good a place as any to hide in plain sight.

He keeps the metal hand tucked inside a glove and walks among the living like he deserves to.

He’s not Bucky; not yet. But he’s been trying to be.

———

It’s not until he sees Steve standing there that he realizes what he was really waiting for.

———

_“You pulled me from the river. Why?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Yes, you do.”_

Bucky doesn’t reply. He stares at the floor and breathes: in, out, in, out.

Steve presses on: “We need to go. I’ve only got a couple of hours head start at best.”

“ _I_  need to go,” Bucky says, correcting him, and has to clench his jaw when Steve’s face falls.

His gaze flickers past Steve. There’s a backpack under a loose floorboard, beneath Steve’s feet; he needs to get to it.

Steve gives him a considering gaze and then drops the shield. Bucky stares at it: the garish, patriotic weapon of Captain America. He has the postcard from the Smithsonian, has watched the Avengers broadcasts on TV. Seeing the shield in real life is entirely different. Once, Bucky had followed that shield like it was his anchor. But that wasn’t the shield, he realizes: that was Steve Rogers himself.

Bucky watches as Steve takes his helmet off, sets it on the table on top of the notebook he was just touching. The urgency’s gone out of his movements; they’re slow, considered.

“You really don’t remember, do you,” Steve says, halting, like the words bruise him.

“Please, Steve. I need to go,” Bucky repeats, trying to ignore the way his heart’s pounding.

Steve scrubs a hand through his hair, flattening it down. Bucky is struck by how young he looks. Young in a way Bucky thinks he must have been once, too.

Of all the scenarios he’d imagined—Hydra coming for him in the dead of night, the US government battering down the door to demand he answer for his crimes—Steve had never figured in any of them. He was supposed to stay away, somewhere safe where all the horrors of Bucky’s past couldn’t touch him.

Steve is the one part of Bucky’s life that’s still untainted, the one thing he knows for sure when he hasn’t been able to trust his own mind for the longest time.

Bucky’s feet shift on the floor. He eyes the nearest window, calculating. It would be easy to spring out of it and leave Steve in the dust, but he finds himself wanting to stay.

“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice heavy with affection Bucky knows he doesn’t deserve.

“I remember some things,” Bucky says stiffly, because he has to offer him something. “You were Captain America. I fought with you.” He could say he remembers Steve Rogers, too: bleeding in an alleyway, laughing against a summer-heated brick wall, holding a shield emblazoned with red, white and blue. He doesn’t.

Bucky’s hidden from Steve all this time, trying to protect him. Trying to remember. Clearly, he hasn’t done much of a good job at either.

“That's it? Really?” Steve says, trying to reign in the disappointment on his face.

“I don't know how I can make it any clearer,” Bucky lies, but he doesn't move away. Steve comes closer, and Bucky huffs out an anticipatory breath. He’s unable to recall the last time anyone touched him—really touched him—and it’s a shock when he feels the want start to curl in his belly. 

He’d seen the reverent way Steve had pressed his hand to the notebook, his fingers touching the crumpled postcard like it might give him a piece of the old Bucky back. He can't help but wonder if Steve would touch him that way, too.

Bucky pulls off his baseball cap, tosses it on the table next to the helmet. He looks back at Steve with cold, empty eyes and waits for him to flinch. Steve doesn’t. Instead, he reaches down to pull Bucky’s gloves away, one by one, and presses fingers to his flesh palm. The sensation's overwhelming — Bucky’s already shaking when Steve takes his metal hand and does the same, achingly careful, like it’s something precious rather than the instrument of death Bucky knows it to be.

“I missed you,” Steve says, his voice wet. “Sometimes I thought I’d never find you.”

His thumb strokes over the shiny plates of Bucky’s wrist. It makes Bucky think about the helicarrier, the sickening crunch of bone as Steve’s cheek split open under his fist. He has to pull away from Steve’s grasp and rest his hands on the table.

“I don’t think I’m who you want,” Bucky tries. The old, scored wood creaks under the grip of his metal fingers. “He died a long time ago.”

Steve moves around the table, forces himself into Bucky’s eyeline. “See,” he says, defiant, “I think you’re just what I want.”

“I don’t even know my own head. I don’t trust myself.”

“I trust you,” Steve says, without hesitation. He steps closer, close enough that Bucky can hear the way his breaths are coming out broken.

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky counters, as if that will make any difference to Steve.

“Do you remember this,” Steve says, very quietly, and then his lips touch Bucky’s, barely a kiss before he pulls away.

“No.” Truthfully, Bucky doesn’t. He thinks he would have remembered this: Steve’s lips licked red, eyes dark with need as he looks at him.

He doesn’t know Steve, not really—not in the ways that are important, anyway—buthe wants to know him. Wants it more than he can remember wanting anything.

So Bucky pulls Steve in, presses their mouths together. It’s slow at first, then Steve makes a soft noise in his throat and he’s kissing him back, fierce and frantic. Bucky moves back so Steve can push the jacket from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Now Steve’s grinning, his hands on Bucky's shoulders, and Bucky has to ask, “What?”

“Nothing,” Steve says unconvincingly, though he’s smiling like the sun. “It’s just — you liked red before, too.” He gestures to the red shirt Bucky’s wearing.

The words are strangely comforting, because even if Bucky doesn’t know Steve, Steve knows  _him,_ from another life where he was a person.

“You remember, don’t you,” Steve says, persistent.

“I don’t,” Bucky insists, and it’s only half a lie. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to want — this dark, coiling need spreading throughout his body, making his cock stiffen against his thigh.

He places a hand on Steve’s chest and pushes him backwards; they overbalance before landing on the kitchen floor. Dust rises from the floorboards, making them both cough. Steve just laughs and kisses Bucky again, licking into his mouth with a groan.

Leaning forward, Bucky pulls at Steve’s tac vest impatiently before Steve laughs and shoves his hands away to undo it himself.

Soon, Steve’s skin is warm and bare under Bucky's hands. In a rush of breath, he realizes he knows this skin. He thought he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch Steve, but these memories are lodged deep, somewhere even Hydra couldn’t touch. Long ago, Bucky had sponged off this skin when it was sweaty with fever, pressed furtive kisses into it in tents during the war. Loved it and knew it like his own.

Bucky sits up and raises his arms to let Steve pull his shirts away. Steve’s eyes flicker over the scar tissue where metal joins flesh, and Bucky doesn’t like it — it makes him feel raw, vulnerable. He brushes away Steve’s hand as it starts to reach out.

“Buck,” Steve says, visibly pained by Bucky’s reaction, “it’s okay.” But he doesn’t try to touch the shoulder again.

Conscious of time, they quickly shed the rest of their clothes. Steve’s uniform pants end up still hooked over his boots and Bucky only unzips his jeans enough to release his cock. Steve wraps a warm hand around Bucky's cock, stroking slowly, and Bucky has to muffle a sigh in Steve’s shoulder at how good it feels.  
   
Then Steve pulls back, tips his chin up. “You aren’t gonna hurt me, Bucky,” he says, stubborn, looking him straight in the eye. “Come on, fuck me. I want it.”

Bucky is blindsided by a surge of affection for Steve, who's pleading for his touch when they should be running for their lives.

“Right,” Bucky says. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I should —”

The nearest cupboard has some flavorless cooking oil. Bucky gets to his feet and stumbles to grab it.

“You always did know how to improvise,” Steve says, wry, settling back on his elbows.

Bucky offers him the ghost of a smile and kneels between Steve’s thighs. Steve’s face brightens, like this is all he’s ever wanted, and Bucky can’t look — can’t see that.

The oil is cool and slippery when he pours it into his hands. He doesn’t mean to use his metal fingers, but Steve guides his left hand down, shifts and breathes until he’s taking two and moaning low in his throat. Bucky has to close his eyes upon hearing those desperate, needy sounds, but he can still feel all of it: Steve, bearing down on the slick metal like he trusts Bucky not to hurt him.

“Now,” Steve grunts, bringing Bucky back to himself. He strokes his hands up and down Bucky’s sides, and Bucky shakes, sensitive from being starved of physical contact for so long.

“Okay,” Bucky says. He slips his fingers out of Steve and tries to stay calm. It takes a second to arrange them, all elbows and knees, but Bucky finds a position that approximates comfort before reaching for the oil and slicking up his cock.

Then Steve exhales and Bucky's pushing inside him, a slow slide that feels like an eternity. Bucky groans softly at the heat and friction around his cock. God, Steve's tight — there’s sweat on his forehead and his eyes are wet, his teeth ground together as he tries not to make a sound.

“It's been a while,” Steve says breathlessly, and Bucky stops. He curls the metal hand around the back of one of Steve’s thighs, holding him open. He can see where he’s pressed into him; it takes his breath away.

“I’m hurting you,” Bucky rasps. His knee bones are digging into the floor uncomfortably, but it hardly registers.

“Yeah,” Steve pants. “Keep going.” His eyes slide closed, head thunking back against the grimy floor. He’s beautiful like that: mouth open, eyelashes dark against his pale skin.

Bucky thinks about being gentle, but they don’t have time for that, and anyway, he’s not sure he knows how to be gentle after a lifetime of violence.

It’s not far from brutal, the way he moves inside Steve, but Steve takes it, making these shocked gasps that sound like they’re being punched out of him. It hits Bucky that he’s the one drawing these noises out of Steve, unashamed sounds of pleasure. That he’s finally giving him something good instead of taking from him.

Steve starts touching himself in quick, erratic strokes. Bucky can’t tear his gaze from Steve’s face—the way his features go taut, his brow furrowing as he bites at his lip—and this, at last, is something Bucky truly  _knows_.

“Steve,” he whispers as he presses in deeper, harder, “it’s you.”

Steve moans, going tight around him, and then he’s coming, wet over both their stomachs and his own hand. Bucky follows while Steve’s still shuddering and clenching around him, hissing out a breath from between his teeth.

He pulls out, runs a finger over Steve where’s he’s aching and open. Steve gasps; he raises himself up so he can look Bucky in the eye.

“You  _do_  remember,” he says, triumphant, laughing a little around the words.

“I remember enough,” Bucky tells him, and at least that’s not a lie.

Steve strokes a hand through Bucky’s hair and stares up at him. His touch is careful and his gaze is calm and accepting, like he doesn’t care that Bucky is broken beyond all hope of repair.

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just grips Steve’s jaw and kisses him again, rougher than he intends.

“We really have to go,” Bucky says abruptly, sitting back. Steve nods — he won’t push it, not now Bucky’s agreed to go with him.

“Don’t want them to break down the door while we’re still dressed like this.” Steve’s tone is light despite the seriousness of the situation.

Bucky grimaces. He pulls up his jeans and goes to get Steve a grubby tea towel so he can clean up.

In a couple of minutes, they’re both dressed again. Bucky punches through the floorboard to retrieve his backpack, ignoring Steve’s yelp of surprise.

“I’m not gonna let them hurt you,” Steve says as he clips his helmet back on.

Bucky shoulders his bag. He looks at Steve for a long moment, and finally says, “Come on. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Steve is obviously crazy enough to have sex with Bucky while the anti-terrorist squad are hot on their heels, right?~~  
>  Title by the Gaslight Anthem.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://glitteratiglue.tumblr.com/).


End file.
